Alternative
by Daring Dashwood
Summary: One-shot. There are many different ways the Cold War could've ended. One involved a friendly game of Russian Roulette.


Alternative

A/n – Holy cow, this is my longest one-shot yet; it started small and just spiraled out of control. And this is all the fault of that bloody Rihanna song.

Warnings: A pretty darn insane Russia. Oh, and cursing.

Time Period: Cold War.

* * *

America was not a man of many fears.

To be sure, ghosts scared the hell out of him—but who wouldn't be afraid of them? (At least, that's what he told himself.)

But aside from the dead, the young nation did not fear much else. Not even Russia, with all of his 'Kol Kol Kol'-ing and menacing aura of doom during the Second World War scared him. Unnerved him slightly, yes, but never truly frightened him. That was just how the cold nation was; end of story.

But right now, nothing scared America more than darkness.

He'd awoken some time ago from a sleep he was sure he did not fall into willingly to meet nothing but the dark. The warm, sticky liquid matting the back of his head confirmed that he was hit and dragged somewhere, but where exactly, he did not know.

Rising to his feet a bit unsteadily, Alfred peered into the darkness, vainly attempting to see even the slightest flicker of light.

"Hello?" He called out uncertainly, the question reverberating off the walls. "Is there anyone out there?"

The darkness did not grace him with a response.

Not one to give up easily, America stumbled along blindly with his hands outstretched in front of him, until they eventually met smooth, cool stone. The beginnings of hope began to spark within him, but were dampened rather quickly as he followed the wall around the whole room, fingers not brushing against even the beginnings of a doorknob.

America followed it once, twice, at least ten times, ending up with the same result each time. All that he was able to discern in the blackened room was that it was twelve by twelve paces long, and that it couldn't be opened from the inside.

He sagged to the ground, withholding tears of frustration to spill over. He wouldn't give his captor the satisfaction, whoever he was.

Two days passed, America remaining in that same position. If they were trying to break him, he wouldn't allow it. He was a nation; he could go at least a month without food or water. It wasn't any fun, certainly. Like a human, his ribs would protrude harshly from his skin. Like a human, his face would become hollow, sunken in. Like a human, he would eventually be unable to even move, hunger ravaging whatever stores of energy he may have had.

But he wouldn't die.

A person would die without ten days of food; but no, not him, not a nation. He would be forced to bear the pain and agony until there was not a single living being that called them an American.

America exhaled slowly, leaning his head back against the chilled stone. England had told him once (after a half hour or so of pestering on the American's part) of the time he himself had gone without food or water for quite some time.

During the infamous Irish potato famine, Arthur refused food or drink for himself, instead giving it to his people. He figured that nations did not require it, and thus there was nothing wrong with him effectively starving and dehydrating himself. When England saw his ribs becoming more and more visible, he chalked it up to the fact that his people were starving, and nothing more.

Next thing he knew, France was hovering over him, explaining that he'd been cataleptic for five months.

America hugged his knees to his chest, and tried to think of better, brighter times.

* * *

"It's been five days, sir, and he still hasn't broken yet."

"He will. Give him a few more days, and he'll be either clawing at the wall or his own throat."

"With all due respect, sir, what makes you so sure? He's holding out magnificently."

"I know, comrade, because when I was around his age, it took only eight days."

* * *

It had been a week since America was captured, and he was not faring well. The walls were made of a thick, solid stone, and he could not budge it, herculean strength or no. He pounded on it until the skin was beat off his knuckles, and even then did not stop, causing a mess of crimson paint on the canvas of the wall.

"Please," he sobbed out, in rhythm with his fists. "Please. Just let me out. I'll do whatever you want just—" he choked. "Just let me out."

* * *

Russia stared through the one-way glass as America sank to the floor in a miserable heap.

"I think he's ready."

* * *

When the seemingly non-existent door opened, the light of the hallway spilled into the darkness, and America could've wept as it blinded him, had he not already expelled all his tears. The nation rose from the floor and actually found himself having to resist flying into the Soviet (well, that explained who his captor was. But, really, who else could he have expected? No one else had the balls, not with the fact that America had nukes.) soldier's arms. Instead he settled for being jerked foreword roughly into the hallway, because there was_ light_, and he would take what he could get. The Soviet soldier who had fetched (rescued) him was joined by two other soldiers, who flanked him on either side.

One of the soldiers produced a shiny pair of handcuffs and handed it to the first man. America stiffened at the sight of the freedom-restrictor, and tried to pull away from the Soviet's vice grip.

"N-no…don't put them on me…don't…"

"Going back on your word already?"

"Word? I didn't…"

"Now you've proven yourself to be a liar as well." The Soviet spat in disdain. "Disgusting American pig. A mere five minutes before you claimed you would do whatever I wanted if I set you free. Now I will tell you this only once, so I suggest you shut your fat mouth and listen to me, да? You can either stop struggling and let me put the handcuffs on you, or you'll go back into your cell and left to rot. Now which will it be?"

America, despite his yearn for freedom, knew that he had no real choice. To go back into that cell, to that darkness….America shuddered. Wordlessly, he held out his wrists and allowed them to be cuffed.

Together the four walked down the endless maze of hallways, the Soviets' boots clicking on tile. America tried to memorize each twist and turn they took, but stopped shortly after the sixth, too tired and weary to focus. His head was swimming, and it was all he could do to keep walking.

They stopped, after what seemed for hours of walking (when, in fact, it had only been mere minutes) in front of a door. It was identical to the many others that had been previously passed, aside from the number at the top. One of the younger, presumably of lower status soldiers reached for the doorknob, but the Soviet who'd sprung America barked out a halt.

Savagely, he threw the nation to the ground. America uttered a cry of surprise, but was cut short as the wind was kicked out of him.

"Capitalist pig," the trio jeered, continuing to beat on the fallen nation. America scrabbled for purchase, but every time he attempted to rise he was merely pummeled again. It was only after the men had their fill, several minutes later, that they allowed the battered nation to stand.

Without another word, the leader of the trio jerked open the door and the other Soviets shoved America in. The room itself was spared of any decorative objects; it possessed only a small table and two chairs. And sitting in one of those chairs was—

"Russia."

"America," the nation greeted. He gestured to the empty chair. "Sit. We have much to discuss."

America hesitated, but eventually submitted to the Russian's desires, the chair making an ugly screeching sound as he pulled it out.

There was a long, drawn out silence as the two superpowers stared each other down. Although thoroughly beaten by the Soviets, malnourished, and sporting a busted lip, America retained a steadfast, unflinching glare at his captor. Russia smiled emptily, waiting patiently for the other nation to make the first move.

He didn't have to wait too long.

"What do you want with me, commie?" America snapped angrily. His voice was hoarse and gravelly from screaming earlier, coupled with the lack of water intake over the past few days.

"Temper temper." The colder nation chided, inwardly reveling at the smoldering gaze his observation brought. Such beautiful blue eyes…

"I want you to play a game with me." The American opened his mouth, but all shouts of protest died on his lips as Ivan pulled out a revolver from the confines of his thick coat.

"What's that for?"

"I think you know quite well what it's for, дорогой Альфред." His voice was as smooth and glossy as his gun as he fished a single bullet out of his pocket.

"Don't call me that." The younger nation snarled. He tugged at the manacles encasing his wrists, partly amazed at how they could withstand his herculean strength and partly frustrated.

Russia continued on, as if the other had not interrupted him at all. "This is an all or nothing game."

America snorted. "No shit."

"If you win, you'll walk out of here scot free." As if to either reassure Alfred or to support his statement, Ivan revealed the key to the former's chains, before slipping it back into his breast pocket and patting it afterwards.

America was silent for a moment, considering the Russian's barmy offer. "How do I know this isn't a trick?" He said finally, uncertainty dusting his voice.

The maniacal grin widened, if ever so slightly. "You don't. You just have to take my word for it. You have to trust me."

"…What do you have to gain from this?"

"What?" Russia couldn't mask the surprise he felt before speaking; the American, instead of acting in his usual violent nature and vehemently refusing his offer, was unusually calm and considering the deal.

"I mean, why would you even bother offering me a way out? This isn't like you at all, you commie bastard. You hate losing. I know, because you're just like me."

America's blue eyes widened and Russia giggled in unison as they both realized what the former had just said.

"I-I didn't mean it like that!" America amended hastily. "I'm not talking about our governments; we both know communism is total shit compared to capitalism." Russia snorted at the arrogance, but otherwise refrained from commenting. "I meant as in how we act. We are both stubborn and always want to win. But stop distracting me from what I meant to ask! I'm saying that you must have something to gain from this; because there's no way in hell you'd do this otherwise. Tell me what it is."

The grin stretched further. "You're quite the demanding one, да? Always, _always_ asking questions…" _Like a naive child. _Russia finished the sentence in his head, unwilling to start another fight with the oddly docile America. He had the upper hand now, and wouldn't lose it due to childish urges. That was America's job.

"Tell me."

The Russian shook his head whilst fingering the revolver absentmindedly. "Well, to begin with, I have nothing to lose."

"You're a _nation_. What the fuck do you mean, saying that you have nothing to lose?"

"A nation with no friends, no real allies. A nation whose only family has either abandoned him or is being forced to live with him due to an unstable union, hating every second of it and wishing that some nation like you might kill me and save them. A hero to save them from the villain. Loving someone isn't enough; providing them with the necessities—food, water, shelter, and the like—isn't enough. No, no matter what I do, everyone hates me. It's always,_ always_ cold, and thus I can never grow the sunflowers I yearn for. I'm on the brink of a nuclear holocaust. So, tell me, America, what do I have, really, to lose?"

"Well, maybe if you didn't start trying to take over Europe with your bullshit communism, everyone wouldn't hate you so much." It was all false bravado on America's part; he'd never seen a nation—even Russia himself, for that matter—this unhinged, and it scared him, almost as much as the darkness had.

Russia barked out a hollow laugh at that, causing America to start slightly. "Oh, now there's a thought…"

"I'm serious, Russia. World War II just ended; do you really think anyone's going to stand for another attempt at global domination?"

"No, you don't understand my motive. It's not to take over, it's to join together. Imagine for one second that if there were no countries—can you imagine the peace? No one squabbling over old issues, no one threatening to nuke anyone else, no one fighting over resources. Just _peace_."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Russia was taken aback at the harsh tone of America's voice.

"What do you—?"

"You have _no right_," tears of rage were welling up now, and America was wiping them away halfheartedly with his chains. "You have no fucking right to do this to us, to _me_."

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you're getting at. I'm trying to—"

"What you're trying to do, Russia, is take over. Don't even start trying to spoon-feed me that shit about peace. What about the people who don't want to join the Soviet Union? Would they be shot in the streets, in front of their family, in front of children? Would they be sent to Siberia to freeze to death? Or," he spat. "would they be sent to fucking concentration camps?"

"…"

"I never took you for a copycat, Red. Guess I was wrong."

"…I see that I came too early." Russia rose, his chair making a harsh grating sound on the stone. He gestured to the two Soviet guards. "Take him back to his cell again."

As commanded, the two men seized the younger nation. America struggled a little, but stilled when the cold muzzle of a gun was pressed to his cheek.

"Move," the one man spoke, his English garbled and almost incomprehensible. America was shoved foreword, sent stumbling into the hallway. He raised his smoldering blue eyes to the other's violet ones unflinchingly, which the latter returned just as hotly.

"No food or water." Said Ivan. "One week."

* * *

And there they were, in that same room, in the same position, one week later.

"So, where were we?" The Russian hummed happily. His eyes appraised Alfred, and were satisfied with what they saw. As predicted, an entire seven days of no food, water, or outside contact had run its course. America's eyes were wild with fever, and the prison uniform he'd been given at his arrival (kidnapping) appeared to be twice larger than need be. Ivan was sure the younger nation's tongue was uncomfortably swollen as well.

Russia turned to one of the guards. "Bring water." He barked in his native tongue, and the soldier hastened to retrieve it. He returned his attention to America. "I'm sorry about that. Now, I believe we'd been discussing my motives for our little game, yes? And then we'd gone dreadfully far off topic." His voice grew black at the mention of it. "Let us not mention that, да?"

It was at that moment the Soviet soldier returned, handing the glass to Ivan. Condensation was already budding on the outside; Ivan's hand was damp the second he grasped it. America was, naturally, staring at the water greedily. The second week of isolation had driven any semblance of pride from him; he'd been stripped down from a nation to the sheer desperation that came with being human.

"I will give you this water, America, but only if you agree to play with me." He watched the American lick his cracked lips, considering the offer. Despite the nation's hesitation, there was no doubt in Russia's mind that he would have his way.

America finally opened his mouth to reply, but he was so parched he couldn't form the words. Ashamed, he simply nodded his head.

"Good." Ivan pushed the glass across the table, barely suppressing a smirk as America pounced on it. The manacles made gripping the water difficult, but desperation brings out the intelligence in even the most common and simple minded of men.

Russia watched the younger nation polish off the whole glass patiently. Said nation put down the glass, and something in him wanted to thank the communist. Ignoring the urge, he glanced up at Russia.

"S-so…" Damn. His throat was still a little sore. America cleared his throat and tried again. "Where were we?"

"I was telling you my reasons for playing this game with you." Russia paused as the other gave a sound of remembrance. "I've told you the first already. As for the second…"

"Well? What is it?" Alfred wasn't too sure he wanted to know, but curiosity spurred him onwards. He found himself leaning closer to the other nation despite himself.

Russia met him halfway, and started to finger the other's face before he could utter out even a syllable of protest at his proximity.

America stared at Russia, sky blue eyes wide and uncertain, clearly reflecting his mixed feelings of confusion and fear. He didn't even attempt resisting anymore. He was tired, beaten, dehydrated, and scared out of his wits—couple that with the fact that he's bound in chains strong enough to hold Russia, and he's faced with the grim truth that he cannot resist whatever the Russian did to him, no matter what it was.

"Your eyes," Russia practically purred out the words, causing the other superpower to shudder slightly.

"W-what about them?"

"When you lose, your brain just a pretty little splatter of blood on my carpet," Ivan continued on in the same soft voice, as though brain matter splattering all over his floor was a usual occurrence. America wouldn't really be that surprised if it was. "I'll finally be able to have what I've always wanted."

"What? My defeat?" He scoffed.

"Нет. I'll have your eyes, your beautiful, beautiful eyes." His thumb traced the dark circles under the American's eyes. "I'll gouge them out of whatever is left of your head, and preserve their beauty forevermore. Maybe I should keep some of your hair as well…" Russia mused, bringing his hands up to thread them in the now trembling American's hair. "It's so bright and soft, just like a подсолнечник."

America swallowed hard. Fuck, this guy was crazy.

When the hands started to dip lower, just barely grazing his neck, it was enough to snap the American out of his fear induced stupor. He jerked his body away from the touches violently.

"D-don't touch me, dammit!"

Oddly enough, Russia humored him, sitting back in his seat, a smug, satisfied grin plastered on his face.

After his breathing finally returned to normal, America picked up the conversation again. "You said when I lose, as if it'll actually happen. We both know I will come out on top. I always do."

Russia smiled at him again. "Shall we see who is right, then?"

There was a split second of hesitation on America's part, and then he slowly nodded once.

* * *

"You go first. Take a breath, a deep one." Russia instructed. "Calm yourself."

America, despite himself, found himself following the commands. Inhale, exhale.

The revolver was pushed across the table to him, stopping a few inches short of brushing against trembling fingers.

"Take the gun, and count to three."

The younger nation was sweating now; he could feel the tiny beads of perspiration build on his forehead, dribbling down in tiny rivulets. Heart thudding painfully loud in his ears, he shakily picked up the gun. He fumbled with the weapon awkwardly for a short time, finding it hard to point the revolver at his head when he was in shackles and his hands were slick and slippery with nervous sweat. Ivan said nothing as he took in every movement the American made, drinking it in greedily. It was such a rare thing, seeing the younger nation this serious, this frightened, this_ human_.

America's breath hitched as he finally aimed the gun at himself. Eyes staring straight down the weapon's barrel, he fingered the trigger. There was no time to have second thoughts, no time to turn back; there was just no time left.

One…

Alfred found himself praying to gods he'd long since forsaken, from catholic to Muslim, Native American to Hindu.

Two…

He wondered what Arthur would say if he saw him like this. Probably chastise him for letting it get this far, for taking the Russian up on his offer in the first place. What if he didn't come out of this alive? Oh God, what about _Mattie_? He couldn't just leave his twin all alone! And what of all the other people and nations who relied on him? Who counted on him to survive in order to reach their full potential? What would happen to them, to their dreams and ideals?

Ivan cleared his throat, and gestured pointedly for the American to get on with it.

"Is this really your first time?" His voice was laced with ill humor.

Faint embarrassment coloured his cheeks. "S-shut up."

America swallowed down a rather large lump in his throat. It was too late to worry about the value of his life, far too late.

Three.

_Click. _

America exhaled slowly, relieved. He thought he saw a flicker of—what was it? Fear? Satisfaction? Disappointment? He did not know which.—something in Russia's violet eyes, but it vanished as fast as it came. He tossed it to the other best he could in the chains, wincing at the slight pain it brought. At best, his wrists were merely chafed; at worst, they were rubbed raw and bleeding beneath the ice covered manacles.

Russia held the revolver against his head, and, suddenly, out of nowhere, America was struck with the bizarre notion that it looked, well, it looked _right_ to see the former with a gun pointed at his head. Shaking his head slightly, as if to distill the odd thought, Alfred was unprepared for the click of the revolver and jumped slightly in the chair, startled.

Russia slid the gun back, a confident smirk on his face.

"That was quick." The American remarked, still slightly baffled. God, how many times had the Russian done this before?

"It's your turn."

"I know that, idiot. How many times have you done this, you sick bastard?"

Glimmers of insanity flickered in violet irises, and the young nation felt an irrational fear engulf him as the room temperature plummeted. As if it wasn't cold enough in Siberia to begin with.

"Not enough, as I still seem to be here."

"So why don't you end your life? Why leave it up to chance?" He gestured to the gun as best he could, chained as he was. "You could end it all right now, if you wanted to. I sure as hell ain't stopping you. I actually want to live."

"You're still so childish, America."

As expected, Alfred bristled at the statement.

"I'm not—"

"You are. And it's not an insult. In all honesty, I would trade anything to be in your position right now. You're still so fresh, so new…so untainted by the corrosions and sins of humanity, of your own people." Violet eyes studied the American carefully. "It won't be long now, though. You're falling faster than I did, much, much faster. I assume it's due to the technological advances."

"W-what are you talking about?" America sounded so vulnerable right now, so fragile, and Russia loved it. "My people are nothing like yours. They care about each other. Together we can stand up to anyone; hell, we could take the world if we had to!"

"Such bold declarations. You should watch who you say those near; we wouldn't want a third world war so shortly after the last one concluded, да?" His face darkened slightly. "Or is that what gets you off?"

"What?"

"Do you enjoy war, or, better yet, enjoy the attention it brings to you? You enjoy wars because military power is your only true strength, and thus your allies love you in their time of need."

"Wha—what the hell are you talking about?" America sputtered indignantly. "You really thought that—I would _never_—how could you even say that?"

"So is it true?"

"Of course not! Jesus Christ Russia, what kind of monster do you think I am?"

"You really want an answer?"

"Ha-ha. But seriously Russia, what would give you the idea that I liked war? I tried to stay neutral as long as I could."

"Oh yes, your pitiful attempt at isolationism. Not quite working out for you, is it? It's a shame; you really know how to rub people the wrong way when it comes to foreign policy."

The younger nation bristled again. His bindings made a harsh _clang _as he slammed his hands on the table. "I try my best, okay? Who helped you win the Second World War? If it wasn't for me, you'd all be screaming 'Hail Hitler!' for the rest of your lives! Who rebuilt all of fucking Europe afterwards? It wasn't you, Russia; it wasn't France, or Britain, or China: it was _me_."

"Who withheld Japanese delegates from speaking with the president until after Hiroshima and Nagasaki were bombed? Who bombed Japan twice just to show me that they had more than one atomic bomb, that they could produce many, many more?"

"…."

"Don't kid yourself, Capitalist Pig. You're no better than the rest of us."

* * *

"Close your eyes." The Russian offered. "Sometimes it helps."

"You shouldn't have played this game enough to know that, Red." America spat back.

"Do you forget that this game is called _Russian _Roulette?"

"Touché."

Although the odds were worse this time, America felt practically no fear at all as he pointed the revolver at himself for the second time. It was like he just knew that this time wouldn't be the end, not this time. America glanced into the patiently waiting violet eyes opposite him, and wondered if this was how the Russian felt.

America pulled the trigger, and his life flashed at him, all banners and stripes and guts and glory and freedom and sea to shining—

_Click._

He exhaled again, relief flooding into his veins.

America tossed the gun to Russia, who caught it deftly. Despite the facts that his chances of survival were growing slim, he was growing confident.

"Your turn."

As Russia pressed the revolver to his temple, he regarded the American thoughtfully. A pair of violet eyes continued to bore into America until the latter got uneasy and started to shift in his chair, his chains clinking together softly.

"What?"

"Would you miss me if I died today, America?"

"Of course not."

"You answered that awful quickly."

"Because there's nothing to think about. I hate you, and everything you stand for. So why should I give a damn whether you die or not? In fact, I'd be glad if you did."

America was annoyed that Russia had the nerve to look hurt at that, as if he hadn't expected such a reply. What else could he have hoped for? Any semblance of friendship they might've had due to America's civil war had long since been abandoned even before the Cold War began. World War II hadn't even ended before the two (former) allies were trading blows.

"I would miss you."

"Why?"

"We're equals, America. When one of us dies here today, the survivor won't ever have an equal again. Try as they may, no other country will ever compare to us. The survivor of today won't have someone to relate to, someone who understands. Isn't that a sad thought?"

"…Why do we have to do this? Can't you just let me go, and we'll continue to fuck with each other's minds until the Cold War is over?"

"No, this is the way that it must be." Although his tone was a cheery one, the sadness lurking in the violet eyes betrayed it. Leaning across the table, Russia handed the younger nation the revolver.

Try as he might, America couldn't stifle the fear that rose within him as his captor gave him the gun. There were only two bullets left—he had a fifty percent chance of having his brains exploded all over the floor.

Those were not good odds, and America was running low on luck as it was.

Oh dear God, he was really going to die this time, wasn't he? He could feel the tears pool and spill over, and could see—albeit blurrily—though the thick tears the slightest hint of disdain on the Russian's face. He waited for the other to berate him, to scoff at him, but he was met with only silence.

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

Perhaps things could've gone differently. They had so much in common; they could've been great friends, maybe greater than Britain and America, even with their "special relationship". But their people's political ideologies forcibly cut off any ties of friendliness between the two superpowers. It didn't seem fair that they, or any nation, for that matter, had to suffer at the hands of their people. They were far stronger than them, and one could consider them immortal, in a sense. And yet they had less power than the weakest of humans, as they were but mere servants to the people's will.

But there was no time to waste on the what-could-have-beens, not anymore.

America stared at the Russian, taking in every contour of his body. Some small part of him wanted it to be the last thing he saw. He couldn't tell why. Or, rather, he could, but he didn't want to.

Alfred's eyes fluttered closed.

Inhale,

His finger hovered on the trigger.

exhale.

America closed his eyes as his finger twitched and pulled the trigger, wondering if this would be the e—

* * *

-Fin-

It sounded better in my head, I swear.

-Sharp-Machete-


End file.
